


Nobody Needs To Know

by GoldStarGrl



Series: One Singular Sensation [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, First Time, Infidelity, M/M, Wilson has feelings too guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, House panics. Most days, Wilson gets caught up in the storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Needs To Know

**Author's Note:**

> Song work was based off of: "Nobody Needs to Know." from The Last Five Years.

The sunlight fights it’s way through his heavy shades and drawn curtains, throwing it’s gray diluted beams all over the room. The universe seems insistent on forcing him to see his handiwork in the light of day.

With a soft groan, he rolls from his back onto his side, propping his head up with an elbow.

Wilson’s still sleeping. He sleeps with more ease than any doctor House has ever met, all loose limbs and relaxed eyes and soft, mussed hair. His skin is warm and creamy, peeking out in slivers from under the hem of his tee-shirt, the only thing he has on. 

_He looks beautiful._

The thought is so clear, so abrupt, and so out of character House isn’t sure which startling factor causes him to jump and try to distract himself. He quickly sits up and gropes for his cane, thrown somewhere on the floor below. He knocks over one of his pill bottles in his haste, which falls and clatters against the ground. 

_Shit._

Wilson might fall asleep easy, but he has the same hair trigger reaction as anyone else whose ever spent forty-eight hours straight in an emergency room. His brown eyes snap open and dart around the room.

At first they’re confused. Then they widen into horror. He sits up, his head bumping lightly against the headboard. He yelps and claps his hand over the sore spot.

House suddenly can't stand to look at him. He feels embarrassed he was ever doing so, like it's something obscene. He swings his useless legs over the mattress and puts on his slippers, his back to Wilson.

“Good morning sunshine.” He says, in as breezy and nonchalant a voice as he can muster.

“Oh my God.”

“Most call me House. My mom does prefer Greg, though.”

“Oh my _God_.“

“Isn’t yelling that against some Jewish rule? If you say it one more time will Beetlejuice appear?”

“Oh my GOD.”

House sighs and rolls his eyes. He locates his cane, practically shoved under the bed in the drunken frenzy of the night before. He hooks his pinky through the crook and pulls it up, standing. His leg is stiff and smarting, like it always is in the morning, but he can’t make himself sit back down and massage it into working condition. Not right now.

“ _House_.“ Wilson says in a stage whisper, sounding scandalized. House can hear him scrambling to get his pants on, gathering up the comforter in front of him, as though it will work as some sort of fluffy barricade. “We-we-“

“Tickled each others pickles? Brokeback’d the mountain? Flipped-“

“ _We slept together_.” 

House’s shoulders slump and he reluctantly swings around. Wilson is standing on the other side of the bed, his arms stretched around the comforter, holding it like a barrel against his chest. He looks like he’s about to start hyperventilating. 

“Yep. We did.” He raises his eyebrows and smiles thinly, shrugging. 

The confirmation that the whole scenario isn’t some sort of delusional episode seems to drain Wilson’s body of its power. He drops the comforter and his knees buckle, his eyes rolling up into his head. House tosses his cane aside and leans across the mattress, clumsily catching Wilson by his shoulders and easing him, face down, onto the mattress. A groan a few seconds later tells him that he’s still with the living.

“D’you want me to get you some water?” House asks, exasperated. 

Wilson makes a sort of grunting noise he assumes is a yes. He clops into his bathroom and fills a plastic cup he stole from some long-closed restaurant halfway.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks the same as he always does in the morning; Knotted salt-and-pepper hair, bleary blue eyes, a perennially pissed off expression. No sign he had fucked his best friend of twenty years into the mattress just a few hours earlier.

He takes a deep breath and returns to his room, where Wilson hadn’t moved from his stomach, his face smushed into the sheets.

“Is that your new favorite position?” He can’t help it; The deflective cracks come out on autopilot. Wilson twists around immediately, turning pink. 

“Shut up.” He snaps, taking the water. 

House’s leg is killing him, but he doesn't want to sit down on the bed next to Wilson. Something tells him he won’t be able to handle it. He leans against the wall of his room, watching him down the whole glass in one go. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“House.” He says, and his voice is suddenly not his own. It's the stern, calm voice of Doctor James Wilson, about to sit down with a young mother and tell her she had inoperable lymphoma. 

House hates that voice more than most things on his long list of disgust and derision. But he lets it continue. 

“This was a mistake. We-We’re not together. You’re with-“ The blood leaves his face again, mercifully taking the voice with it. “ _Cuddy_. Oh my God, you just cheated on Cuddy. With me!”

House tilts his head back and blows out his breath. He was afraid this might come up.

“It’s not working out.” He says.

“So-so you talk!” Wilson is stammering now, his voice climbing higher the longer he goes. "You go to a counselor or you get a beer with Chase! You do anything besides what you did! What we did!”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” House growls, and Wilson closes his eyes, looking pained. 

“This isn’t about me.” He says carefully. "This is about you and her."

“She doesn’t get me. She wants to be a part of everything I do. And vise versa.”

Wilson shakes his head and gets off the bed, looking for his shoes. “Yeah. She wants to spend time with you. What a bitch.”

“She invades! Everything I do, or think - I just need ten minutes to be alone with my head and my pain, and she’s incapable of even giving me that! I can’t take it anymore!” He’s yelling by the end of his sentence, but he doesn’t care. Impulsively, he grabs Wilson by the wrist, causing him to drop his sock. 

“Let go of me.”

House pulls his arm like the end of a lasso, jerking Wilson towards him so they’re standing chest-to-chest. He squints at him, tilting his head to the right.

Wilson squirms, looking down at his feet.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve cheated before. People who’ve been married three times aren’t usually known for their fidelity.” House says. He is using his smug, I’ve-figured-out-the-diagnosis voice. 

Wilson hates that voice more than most cancers and known war criminals. But he lets it continue.

“Why is this bothering you so much?”

Wilson exhales sharply, a little, bitter laugh at his lips. “You really are an idiot.” He yanks his wrist away and resumes picking up his socks. “This isn’t just some pretty nurse from Radiology. You are my friend, and Cuddy is my friend, and-“

The rest of his sentence is cut off by House unceremoniously lunging at him, knocking him off his feet and sideways onto the bed. Wilson shouts.

“What the hell?”

House is on top of him, pressing down on his wrists, pinning his arms crooked above his head. He’s still looking at him like he’s some rare blood disorder.

“This wasn’t just sex. There are feelings involved.” He said. Wilson rolls his eyes.

“Yes. As I said, you and Cuddy are both-" 

House cuts him off again, dipping down to kiss him. 

Wilson is suddenly six hours in the past, full of booze and guilt, startled by how soft everything House is doing to him is. There aren’t any wise cracks or scoffing or insistences that they have sex upside down in the shower. He’s just methodical, gentle, those big blue eyes watching him, hawklike, and expectant.

Now, in the early morning, it’s more of the same. Wilson gently disentangles his wrists from House’s fingers and circles his neck with his arms, gently easing him down so he’s lying right on top of him. He closes his eyes, everything warm and soft.

_Now_ he hears a scoff.

House breaks away from him, raising his head a few inches so he can look down his nose at Wilson, smug even when flushed and half dressed. 

“Not the feelings I was talking about.” He says. “You _like_ me.”

For a moment, Wilson stares up at him, his eyes unfocused, his lips red and swollen.

There are so many ways to respond.

He could deny it and storm out. Move to California, change his name, become a postman. That would buy him a few months.

He could tell House that he didn’t appreciate how he did this to him, dragged him along in whatever hair-brained scheme was going to cure a person that week. Or that night.

He could mention how he’d almost kissed him sixteen times since they met. How he knew House knew that, but that wasn’t an excuse to use him like a hooker, to blow off steam and prove a point.

He could tell him he'd do anything for him. That all House had to do was snap his fingers and he'd arrange for Cuddy to be shipped off to Thailand by late afternoon.

He could tell him he's in love with him. And that he hates him for it.

There are so many things, true things, Wilson could tell House, about him and himself and their fucked up relationship that would shut the whole thing down.

But those eyes were still there, open and blue and, far in there depths, a little vulnerable.

Because even House was sometimes wrong.

And if Wilson didn’t like him, if his diagnosis had been off base, he would fall apart.

So Wilson pushes all those other things out of him mind. 

And does what he always does. 

He takes care of House.

Arms still around his neck, he gently pushes House's head back down, kissing him again. 

“So what if I do?” He mumbles into his teeth. 

For a few more minutes it’s bliss again, warm hands and flipping over on the bed, his fingers digging into the pillow as House pushes in and out of him, feeling like heat and power and the best drug high on Earth. His mind is blessed in it's blankness.

And then they’re back where they started, lying tangled in sheets, breathing hard.

“What are we going to do now?” House asks. Wilson shrugs. 

House raises an eyebrow. “Really? _Now_ you decide to calm down?”

“Whatever you decide I’ll go along with it. I always do.” The words are sad, almost, but Wilson doesn’t seem bitter. He just states them, like House asked him for the five day forecast. House rubs his neck, his shoulder starting to ache. He really is getting too old for spontaneous gay sex. 

“Thank you.” He says quietly, almost murmuring it. Wilson turns his head, surprise etched on his face.

“Really?”

House just reaches under the covers and squeezes his warm hand. Wilson barely squeezes back before House retreats, staring up at the ceiling. 

Wilson doesn’t force it. 

He never does. 

Sometimes, every thousand years or so, a man can get what he wants. 

Two at the same time though,

That’s pushing it.


End file.
